I want to be a published writer. It has been my dream for the last year. It could have been a deep desire that’s been hidden inside me all along. Not until life bitch slapped me in the face and told me to do something with my life did I ever think about what I really wanted for my life. Sure, I graduated high school; then I graduated college, but I never really knew what I wanted. I drifted through life, idly finding a new purpose when I got the pressure put on me.
So, I took to writing with a vengeance. All along I was unsure of if I was capable of finishing a novel. Hell, I wasn’t sure I could finish anything. Up to that point, I’d written written a few fanfictions that were never finished. For schoolwork I would write short stories, when I had the option. I’d even had a special writing notebook with the beginnings of countless handwritten stories. When my emotions reached an uncontrollable state, I’d spout everything out on a screen. With the written word, I was able to express myself in ways I never could before. The opportunity to try to tell a story in full was daunting beyond belief.
It happened with a wave. I sat down one day and wrote words that should never be read by any person, ever. Twenty-four days later, my first novel was complete at 94,000 words. I wrote 94,000 words all on my own. I didn’t even think it was possible. You see, I’d gone back and looked at the massive essays I’d written for grades and not one of them was more than 3,000 words. My expectation to fail was a thing of the past. I’d done it and I was proud. The story is total crap. I am sugar coating this as well, so imagine how awful it actually is. Somehow I had characters that moved through 94,000 words with no real plot.
There was no time for dwelling on the mistakes of my first novel. The only thing I knew was that I needed to start my second novel. Of Brass and Smoke was completed without a true ending, originally. I spent months working on it , resulting in multiple revisions. You know how people say the first 10,000 words of your first draft are likely to end up in the trash. That wasn’t an exaggeration with OBAS. But I had plot! Damn it, I had too much plot. I had almost two separate journeys muddled together at the same time for one character to deal with the entire mess alone. The story has potential, but it needs a nice fine touch to smooth over.
I moved on. The Throne was my next project inspired by epic fantasies. It was long and sweeping, the story is the most compelling and intricate story I have created to date. But I didn’t trust my gut. I knew The Throne was going to be a long story and my fear of publishing lengths led me to the brilliant idea of splitting the stories in two. It was a bad idea. Tell the story that needs to be told. I failed to live by that and you could feel how incomplete the story was. Now I am tasked with finishing part two, so I can cobble the two stories back together as they rightly should be. I learned from my mistakes.
After writing four and a third books in my first year of writing, I’ve realized one thing. I’m not giving up until one of my books is published by a major publisher. I’ve deluded myself to the point that I honestly believe it will happen within the next couple of years. My affinity to words led me to writing and my hard headed nature has kept me on course as I travel the road toward publishable novel. I’m chasing the dream and there is nothing wrong with that. Sure, the pursuit is filled with some delusions of grandeur, but if there isn’t a likelihood to settle once reaching my goal would arise. I chase the dream because it motivates me to get up each morning.
What dream do you chase? Or do you think chasing dreams is for the deluded?